


Summertime Sadness

by hauntedlittledoll



Series: Goin' 'bout Ninety-nine 'Verse [3]
Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Justice League of America (Comics), Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Random Musical References for the Win
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous Drabbles from the Goin' 'Bout Ninety-nine 'Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summertime Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Lana Del Ray's "Summertime Sadness."

**"Done my hair up real big beauty queen style"**

Steph disapproved of Babs’ good mood on principle.

She had fat ankles and a sore lower back.  No one had the right to be cheerful until after she had the baby.  Thus sayeth Stephanie Brown.

That didn’t really hold up against the willpower of Barbara Gordon.  The pretty redhead was on a mission of goodwill and busy looking gorgeous while doing so.

Stephanie didn’t object to other people looking fabulous (especially when she had helped pick out the dress), but being cheerful was definitely not allowed.  There was a ten foot perimeter and only _Disney_ Movies, chocolate ice cream, and back rubs were welcome within.

There was no reason to be bitter about the Homecoming Dance just because she couldn’t go and Dean was already dating someone else anyway … okay, maybe this little Robin had entertained a few fantasies of party-crashing.

Steph still wasn’t going to be pitied.  Having the baby was her decision.  Whether or not to keep the baby was also her decision.  Bruce had promised, and Damian got homicidal when other people tried to tell Steph what to do.

Steph was absolutely fine staying home and being waited on hand and foot by superheroes.

She told Babs this, casting a suspicious look at the garment bag over her friend’s arm.

"Well, you’re not completely wrong," the redhead shook her head bemusedly, shedding her wrap.  Steph goggled.  At some point between purchase and now, the strapless navy dress had acquired a bright yellow bat across the chest.

Somewhere along the way, “the Bats’ girl” had morphed into “Batgirl” amongst the caped community.  Their hacker may not have a costume, but the sentiment was real.

Barbara gave a little twirl to show off her handiwork, blue crepe fluttering in her wake, and thrust the garment bag into Steph’s arms.  “There’s a little masquerade downstairs in half an hour—special invitation only.  And by special invitation, I mean the Teen Titans, some of the Justice League, and Catwoman.”

Steph refused to cry.  She fumbled with the zipper of the bag instead, letting her hair hide her face as she unearthed a cascade of soft fabric.  The combination of Robin-red and purple didn’t even clash.  “I keep forgetting you know how to sew,” she admitted, swallowing hard.

"I am a woman of many talents," Babs agreed magnanimously.  "Now hurry up and get changed.  The others will get back from sabotaging the school dance soon."

**"I just wanted you to know, that baby you’re the best."**

“Damian,” one of the brats sang quietly into his ear.  Damian calmly reached out, gathering a handful of yellow cape, and ripped the teenager off the fire escape.

“No names in uniform, and what are you doing here, Robin?”

Grayson righted himself easily enough, and shook off Damian’s grip.  “Following you.”

“Obviously.”

The younger vigilante settled himself next to the elder and frowned.  “You disappear today every year and no one knows where you go.  It’s not a mission, and it isn’t the anniversary, so—”

“It is an anniversary,” Damian countered quietly.  “Hers.”  He pointed out the little girl sleeping inside the apartment.  “She turned three years old today.”

Grayson blinked.  “That’s …”

“… her daughter,” Damian nodded, finishing the younger boy’s sentence.  It wasn’t nearly as hard or as special as Grayson and Todd made their annoying little quirk out to be.  The circus boy’s thought patterns were easy enough to predict, and Todd seldom merited the effort.

Except on those rare occasions when Todd disagreed with Grayson.  Damian was very interested in those incidents although they seemed fewer and fewer as time went on.

"She looks just like her," Grayson whispered.

"Don’t be ridiculous," Damian scoffed.  "Her eyes are brown, she’s quite tall for her age, and her incessant chatter seems to revolve entirely around fairy tale princesses."

Perhaps not the most noticeable set of traits in a sleeping child, but still … Grayson is in training with the World’s Greatest Detective after all.

The teenager chose not to argue at least, tugging his knees up to his chest and quietly studying the interior of the apartment.  “Does B know that you watch over her like this?” he asked quietly after some time passed and the first signs of dawn began to appear.

They would have to leave soon.

Damian stared straight ahead.  “Father and I have come to an understanding.  He pretends not to know, and I continue on exactly as I have always intended.”

Damian could not—would not—abide a second failure.

**"I feel it in the air."**

Timothy emerged from the school building to find Cassandra waiting for him by a new motorcycle in Batgirl yellow.

Tim may or may not have trampled a few lingering students to tackle the petite dark-haired woman; it hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things foremost of which was Cassandra finally getting home.

Gotham was always better when Cassandra was home.

Cass hummed a greeting, and smoothed his hair as she listened to his babble indulgently.  “Did Damian make that for you?  It’s really amazing, but I think I want a car for my sixteenth birthday … a red or green one.  I can’t decide.  Do you think Damian will build me a car?”

“Have time,” she reminded the ten year old gently.  “Home now.”

Tim took the other helmet from her, and hopped up behind his sister.  “How fast does this thing go?”

Cass smiled into her mirror.  “Fast.”

Tim’s response was promptly ripped away by the wind, but Cass had never needed his words as she gave into his delighted demand.

 _Faster_.

**"Even if you’re gone … I’m gonna drive."**

They were saying that Robin died.

They were saying that Black Mask killed Robin and walked.

Which was just stupid, because here was Jason crouching over the city in his brother’s spare costume.  It was too tight around the chest, and the cape was too short, but it was Robin above the city again.

It would do until Alfred could prepare a new Robin suit.

Batman called for back-up over the com, and the teen threw himself over the edge of the building.  It was only a triple somersault—Jason had never mastered the quadruple—but it was something, and Jason only launched his grapple at the last possible moment the same way that Dick did.

He couldn’t let Robin die the way that he had let his brother be taken from him.

He had been Robin before and he would be Robin again.

No one really needed Jason Todd anyway.


	2. You'll Never Be Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian-centric Drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from "Whispers in the Dark" by Skillet.

"You Bats," the Joker chuckled, hefting Damian by the simple expedient of tightening his grasp around the young vigilante’s neck.  "You’re not so different from me.  You’ve got your costumes … your ridiculous flair for drama."

"This isn’t a show, Joker," Batman growled.  "Let the boy go."

"But it is a show, Batsy," the villain argued gleefully.  "It’s the greatest show on earth.  You.  Me.  An entire city to lay to waste … we had some good times, didn’t we, Batman?  That warehouse on 79th, the old bridge above the canal, that cute little science fair we crashed my zeppelin into … real good times," the clown trailed off, scowling down at the gasping child inhis arms.  "At least until you decided to make this a _family_ act.”

Damian couldn’t make out his father’s response, but it made the Joker laugh—high-pitched and deranged—right in Damian’s ear.  It made his head ring.

Or maybe that was the shovel-induced concussion.

Or it could be the asphyxiation.

"No passing out, little Bat," the Joker scolded, giving Damian a firm shake and deflating as Damian allowed himself to go limp in the clown’s arms.  The Joker made a rude noise, shifting the weight awkwardly.  "Party pooper."

The man’s grip had loosened, and Damian could just meet the Batman’s gaze over the loud purple sleeve.  His father’s steady nod isn’t meant for the Joker.

It’s meant for him … for Robin

Damian was still _Robin_.

The Joker jostled him hard enough to make Damian’s vision grey out, and the little boy fought the instinctive response as the barrel of a gun was pressed against his jaw.

The gun was the problem … the gun, a handy crowbar, Joker-gas and a half-dozen goons that just didn’t know how to stay down when a ten year old kicked their ass.

Robin figured that the Joker’s little cheats just about made it a fair fight.

"Tsk," the Joker muttered, dropping his captive in an unceremonious heap on the ground.  "Let’s not waste a perfectly good evening, Bats," the clown bartered, digging one oxford-shod foot into Damian’s collarbone with an ominous crunch.  "Call a sitter; we’ll go for drinks … have a few laughs, blow up a building or two."

Gritting his teeth, Damian counted down.  His movements had to be precise and fast … just three simple steps.

Dislodge the Joker.

Get out of reach.

Don’t get shot in the process.

The Joker predictably dodged Father’s batarangs, and Damian seized the scrawny ankle while the clown was caught in that moment of off-balance movement.  The gun went off, ripping through the dirt next to Damian’s ear, but then the clown was falling—pitching forward right into the waiting fist of Batman.

Damian rolled towards the man’s boots, sorely missing his own.  Street-clothes made poor crime-fighting substitutes for one of Pennyworth’s uniforms.

Batman didn’t even put the unconscious villain down as he took his stance directly over his fallen Robin.  The heavy folds of Father’s bulletproof cape settle over Damian as the hired thugs either flee or decide to take on the Bat.  The ensuing battle was satisfyingly short.

The fall-out of tonight would not be.

Damian just hoped that his undoubtedly long recuperation would count as time served towards his grounding.

* * *

"My name is Barbara Gordon.  I’m eight years old," the redhead announced matter-of-factly, offering her hand politely.

Damian shook it warily, and took a prudent step backward.  Although tempting, he did not hide behind his father; Damian was the adult.  Barbara was the child.

The alarmingly precocious daughter of Gotham’s police commissioner fixed the thirteen year old with a frankly curious gaze, secure on her own two feet and not even a little bit nervous about the evening ahead.

This was all Pennyworth’s fault.  The crafty old man should know that the son of Batman was above babysitting, but somehow Damian found himself volunteered for the task anyway.

Father prodded Damian helpfully, and this was really happening.  He sent his best incredulous stare the Commissioner’s way, but the man did apparently intend to leave his spawn in Damian’s reluctant and unqualified care.

There had to be laws against this insanity.

Father gave up on subtlety and gently shoved Damian forward.  “What do you like to do, Miss Gordon?” the teenager ground out through his teeth as prompted.

"I like to read," she informed him archly, "and play video games."

That didn’t sound too bad.  Perhaps there was hope for the evening after all.

"Arrangements can be made," Damian agreed cautiously.

"Okay," the girl spun in place, the bright red ponytail a weapon in its own right as she bounced on tiptoe to embrace her father.  "Bye, Daddy.  Have a good time!"

Damian and his father had their own nonverbal methods of communication.  At the conclusion thereof, Damian had successfully negotiated three nights of driving privileges providing Commissioner Gordon did not pick up a sobbing child at the end of the evening.

It was _good_ to be Robin.

Damian waved as instructed by the small person entrusted to his care until the vehicle disappeared down the drive.  Then Gordon’s progeny spun yet again.  Damian narrowly avoided the ponytail as the formerly docile child neatly pulled herself out of the spin and planted herself firmly in the doorway, hands on her hips.

"Alfred promised me chocolate chip cookies," Barbara leveled a finger in warning, waiting expectantly for her demands to be met.

"Pennyworth always keeps his promises," Damian acknowledged, taking a step back from the clearly intelligent and therefore dangerous child.  "I expect they are in the kitchen.  I will fetch them if you please wait …"

Damian got no further as the small redhead seized his hand and pulled him firmly in the correct direction with an exasperated sigh.

He was not entirely sure why he permitted the manhandling of his person, but Damian had the vaguely unsettling notion that Barbara Gordon was always in charge.

* * *

Damian ducked his clone’s longer reach. Mother had taken pains to reproduce Father’s bulk in her second son.

It looked utterly ridiculous on a teenager of indeterminate age.

No, Damian’s double may very well be stronger, but Damian was faster.

And smarter.

Damian left Mother’s favoured son far behind as he fairly flew over the rooftops with the the Mayor’s son tucked under one arm.

A highly unimaginative death threat followed his progress, and Damian couldn’t help the glance backward with the words of a ridiculous children’s rhyme on his lips:

"Catch me if you can!"

* * *

Robin arrived on the scene amid utter confusion.

The kidnappers were in a frenzy, having lost their small hostage, as they yelled into obviously useless walkie talkies.  The only computer in the room was displaying the blue screen of death, and no one noticed the brightly-clad vigilante for almost two minutes.

He didn’t even need to call in Batman.  The four men were pathetically easy to dispatch, reinforcements never arrived, and the room nearly barren.

Robin walked over to the only access for the ventilation system, and knocked politely on the grate.  His some-time charge crawled into view and pushed the grate aside.  Robin crouched and lifted the nine year old from the enclosed space, scattering the missing batteries across the floor in the process.

She had freed herself, compromised all methods of outside communication, and taken cover.  It was astonishingly competent for a civilian child.

"Well done," he approved, taking one hand in his and inspecting the marks carefully.  The kidnappers had clearly tried to restrain her, but Pennyworth taught his charges how to break a zip-tie long ago.

Barbara reclaimed her hand, wrapping it around his neck instead.  “Damian,” she yawned, resting her head against his shoulder.  It was past her bedtime.  “Damian, tell Daddy I don’t want the _other_ babysitters anymore.”

"Tt," the teenager agreed readily enough, remembering the useless sophomore that he had been forced to rescue and interrogate earlier this evening.

The older girl may have been sweet, responsible, and CPR-certified, but if Barbara had been in _Damian’s_ custody for the evening, the kidnappers would not have been able to abscond with the child in the first place.

She may have been wound up on sugar, filthy in the extreme from some project or another, and reduced Damian’s willpower and self-respect to dust in the process, but perfectly intact and kidnapper-free.  One would think that the commissioner of the police would have better priorities.

He said as much even as he took steps to reunite father and child.  Robin didn’t get so much as a nod from the now-sleeping redhead, and he was halfway to the precinct before the boy-hero realized that his charge had called him by name.

* * *

Damian despised the numerous galas and events that he was forced to attend as the son of Bruce Wayne.  The clothes were pretentious, the company abominable, and the less said about the catering, the better.

Even Brown’s enthusiasm for the glittery nightlife was clearly flagging.

Damian frowned, passing off his drink to the nearest member of the wait-staff and advancing on the cluster of debutantes that had closed ranks around the younger girl.  He had never known the blonde’s insufferable smile to dim; clearly intervention was called for.

"I am bored," Damian announced, cutting through the maze of expensive fabric and deftly extracting his foster sister.  "Let us go out for waffles instead."

"It’s almost midnight," Brown hissed, even as she took his arm and let Damian subtly maneuver them towards freedom.

Damian was unconcerned: “According to you, that is the reason for all-night diners.”

"Bruce will kill us both."

"Unlikely," Damian countered.  "In any event, the presence of Ms. Kyle has Father suitably distracted.  It’s the perfect time to make an escape."

"It’s for the hospital," Brown continued to argue, although her complaint was weakened by the speed in which she moved to follow his lead.  Damian wondered briefly what she had done with her highly impractical heels, but discarded the notion.

Shoes could be replaced, and no restaurant in Gotham would refuse the children of Bruce Wayne regardless of health codes.

"The building already has four wings named in honor of a Wayne," Damian countered.  "Father would get better results if he purchased the hospital outright."

"You can’t just buy a _hospital_!”

"You are an honorary Wayne," Damian allowed his voice to carry—just enough to halt the more stubborn socialites in their tracks.  "You can buy just about anything."

* * *

The female alien had impecable timing for a Kryptonian.  She didn’t bother lowering herself to battle with the score of ninja—his Mother’s female followers of suitable age and skill—but simply offered a hand.  As soon as Damian accepted, she soared upward with his scarred hand firmly clasped in her smaller gloved one.

Despite her diminative size, Supergirl could easily carry Nightwing all the way home like this.  Thankfully, the younger hero paused briefly on the outer wall to adjust her grip for a slightly more comfortable ride.

"I did not ask for help," he said stiffly as she caught him under the arms and took to the sky once more.

"Robin called," the alien teased.  "She thought you may have gotten in over your head."

"Tt."

The alien headed for the Atlantic, and Damian relaxed as Europe swiftly faded from view.  Kryptonians made for a highly convenient mode of intercontinental travel … faster than a plane, smoother than a speedster.

"She wasn’t wrong," Supergirl scolded, gliding close enough to the surface of the water that Damian could send up a spray with his boots if he so chose.  He refrained from the childish gesture; just because Robin could not sustain a professional detached demeanor on missions …

"Nightwing," the alien pressed insistently, "what happened?"

Damian stared off into space unsure if he wanted to have this conversation with the sixteen year old heroine that had once been under his command.  However, if he didn’t have it with Supergirl (and arrange a suitable cover-story), he would be having it with Robin and Batgirl.  Damian did not want to have this discussion with Stephanie and Barbara.

"Mother promised a reward to the servant who could bring her my firstborn child," he said simply as North America became a sliver on the horizon.

"You don’t have children," his rescuer started in confusion, trailing off as understanding dawned.

"The ninja were hoping to change that," Damian issued shortly.  He let a miserable chuckle slip as he wondered if the mercenaries after his mother’s approval were better or worse than the socialites after his father’s fortune.

"It’s not _funny_ ,” Kara insisted, her grip on him tightening to an uncomfortable degree before the alien remembered his human lung capacity.

"No," Damian agreed in quiet exhaustion, "it’s not funny at all."

* * *

The silent black shadow stopped ahead, pointing out the path that would lead Damian to his wayward little brother.  And there the teenager stood, quietly contemplating the path ahead and the way back.

"You do not have to continue, Cassandra," he offered carefully.  "Your assistance has been much appreciated … Thank you for helping," he repeated in simpler words.  "I will fetch Jason now."

The girl shook her head slowly.  “Robin.”

"Yes," Damian agreed.  "I will bring Robin back."

"I want him back," she agreed, her plain demand clear on her upturned face.  "She— _SHE_ —Robin cannot trust.”

Damian agreed.  His mother was untrustworthy in the extreme.  She gave nothing for free, and Jason should know better.  The Lazarus Pit was wrong.  It would not give them back Richard the way he was.

The Bats could ask for no second miracle.

They could take back what was still theirs, however, and Damian promised as much to the former-assassin.  She granted him a nod, accepting it as her due, and then tilted her head to the side.

"And then . . . then we go home?"

"And then we go home," Damian confirmed.

* * *

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh," the tiny figure in the passenger seat was practically vibrating with glee, small fingers clenched in the abused upholstery and lenses wide in the domino mask.  "Oh my gosh."

Damian sighed heavily, peeling one hand off the steering wheel tiredly and reaching out to flick the back of his companion’s head.  Sometimes Robin got stuck in this state.

“ _D_ ,” his sidekick restarted with an aggrieved whine, turning a single letter into a four syllable ode to tween injustice.

Damian waved absently.  “Oh-my-gosh,” he mimicked his little brother’s tone perfectly.  “Oh-my-gosh, what?” he prompted.

Timothy sat up even straighter if that was possible, and Damian was rethinking taking the eleven year old into the field.  Robin’s energy levels were exhausting, and the gleeful way that Timothy drew a deep breath was an ominous sign.

"Oh my gosh, that was the Penguin, Batman!  I took down the Penguin, and it was awesome, because now the Penguin knows I’m _Robin_.”

Damian hummed agreeably.  “It was a satisfactory first night in the field.”

Autopilot was a wonderful thing.  This was why Damian had lobbied so hard for a flying Batmobile during his own Robin days—autopilot, lack of traffic, the look of terror on his enemies’ faces as they were beset from above …

Damian refocused on his little brother.  Satisfactory outcome or not, even Penguin’s less lethal umbrellas hurt like the dickens when expertly applied to one’s ribs.

"Nothing’s broken," the younger vigilante protested.  "The new material took most of it."

Exactly as it was designed to do, Damian approved silently.  There was a reason they had ensconced their youngest from head to toe in the more flexible Kevlar-like substance.

The swelling of Timothy’s jaw would bruise though.

"It did not protect your face," Damian pointed out dryly, running practiced fingers over the slight discoloration as his younger brother tried to squirm away.  It shouldn’t draw too much attention; Timothy’s made a careful showing of klutzy behaviour in public.  No one would blink at further evidence that Bruce Wayne’s accidental ward should not be trusted on horseback with a blunt weapon.

"I am not wearing a mask like Ste—Red Hood," Timothy corrected himself hastily.  "Or Batgirl’s full cowl," he added, before Damian could propose the idea.  "Dominos are a Robin tradition."

"As are broken noses," Damian returned smartly, setting his sidekick free as the Batcave roared up to greet them.  Damian doesn’t even have to get out of the car to spy every member of their ridiculous family lurking in the shadows as if they had some useful function to perform post-patrol.

Timothy rocks eagerly in his seat, held back only by training.

Damian rolled his eyes.  “Go on.”

Timothy was out of the car and sprinting towards the nearest human—Dick—before Damian finished his two word command.

"Catwoman thinks I’m _cute_!”


	3. 'Cause They're All Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Damian Wayne . . . Robin, Nightwing, Batman . . . and loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from this Pink Medley by Macy Kate and Kurt Schneider (I highly recommend it).

_**I mean what I say when I say there is nothing left.** _

The public funeral was lavish.  It seemed as if half the city was determined to cram into the church.  Damian barely registered the crowds clustered outside in solemn tribute to a fallen hero.

He simply stayed close to his Father’s side as the man played the devoted attendant to a grieving mother.  Crystal Brown was so appreciative of Bruce Wayne—how he took such good care of her and Stephanie, how beautiful the funeral was, how kind the richest man in Gotham really was.

And in every other breath, the woman unknowingly heaped coals upon her benefactor’s head as she lay the blame for her daughter’s death at the feet of Batman, criticized the Dark Knight for his child-soldiers, and worried over the fate of the first Robin.

Throughout it all, Damian kept his mouth shut, his fists clenched in his pockets, and his eyes on the floor.

The private memorial was limited to heroes that had actually worked with the sunny sidekick, and—Stephanie Brown being Stephanie Brown—her Robin had worked with just about everyone.

Barbara gave the eulogy.  Damian never heard a word of it; he just stood to the side yet again and waited for the crowds to dissipate with the dawn.  When he stood in the Tower with only the surviving Titans, Damian shared a nod with his former teammates.

The youngest Green Lantern in the universe did not stop him; Stephanie had babysat Milagro’s little brother and Jaime had taken the blonde’s death hard.  Unofficial den-mother, Dinah just looked understanding and patient.  If she thought that Damian would change his mind with time, the woman did not know him at all.

Damian had already come to an understanding with Colin and Barbara.

He advanced on the mainframe.  Nightwing wasn’t Bat-Girl.  He didn’t have Barbara’s gift for bending code to his will, but he had built the computer system of Titans’ Tower with his father’s help.  Shutting the entire thing down was well within Damian’s capabilities.

Damian turned back to the current team, his gaze lingering over each young hero in turn.  Supergirl.  Huntress.  Bombshell.  Miss Martian.  Stargirl.  Connor Hawke, the son of Green Arrow and newest member of what had been for almost two years an entirely female team.

But one blonde head was not among them, and never would be again.

"The Titans are finished."

_**You’re so mean when you talk, just like you always did.** _

Jason got about thirty seconds worth of Robin-sighting in the end—mostly bloodstained cape, unwashed hair, and one bare foot as Dick stumbled into the Batman’s arms.  Then his brother was swallowed up in the cape, and Bruce was sprinting for the car.

Clean-up duty fell to him and Nightwing, but the news arrived before the police.  It was just a gruff message over the com with the emotion stripped from their father’s voice by the Cowl’s synthesizer.

Robin never made it back to the Cave.

The words ripped Jason’s breath from him as he stumbled.  He sucked in air noisily to replace it and shouted “No” across the rooftops.  _"NO!"_

Not Robin.  Not Dick.  Not his brother, his other half, his twin in all but blood.  They had gotten here in time.  Dick had met them on the roof.  He had been bleeding, but moving and alive.  Their acrobat had rescued himself, and they got there in time so Dick was supposed to be okay now.  He couldn’t be dead.

Below, he could hear the laughter of the Black Mask and Jason dove past the frozen figure of Nightwing to the skylight.  The weight of his fall toppled the restrained villain, and Jason punched the man over and over again as someone in the background sobbed in controlled, desperate gasps.

Then the world lurched, gravity gave up, and Jason found himself struggling in midair to connect the blows.  Damian gave him a hard shake by the man’s grip on the stupid bandoliers that came with the Red Robin suit.

_Dick thought that they were so funny, but how was Jason to be prepared for every explosive occasion with a mere belt?_

Apparently, the sobs were coming from Jason, and he choked on them until he could force words out:  “He killed my brother!”

Black Mask said something that Jason couldn’t make out over the sound of his own grief, but it was something terrible because Damian did one of those scary ninja moves that shouldn’t have been possible without dropping Jason first and planted the heel of his combat boot across the side of the monster’s face.  It would be hard for the villain to monologue with a dislocated jaw.

Things got fuzzy from there.

Steph appeared in the skylight as a halo of blonde hair, and Damian must have given Jason a boost, because there was no way the sixteen year old got up there on his own …

_… he was crying on Stephanie’s shoulder, fists clenched in her red cloak as she stroked his hair and cried with him …_

_… he was so angry that he was trying to hurt her, striking ineffectually at her Kevlar plated vest and screaming out over the alley: “He’s not dead.  He’s not!”_

… and of course that won’t go over well with Damian, so the demon yanked him off of Stephanie and pinned Jason to the ground, holding the struggling teen down with harsh guttural words in languages that Jason doesn’t know poured in his ear.

Dick was no longer there to translate, their little bird who picked up languages like breathing and could chatter at Damian for hours in Arabic or French while helping— _hindering_ —the older man’s work on the cars.

Jason went limp.

"He’s gone," Jason whispered hollowly, and Damian pulled him off the ground in one startled movement, tucked in close under the man’s arm as a poor substitute for Dick.  Damian had never liked Jason; the first Robin had barely tolerated Dick although Steph swore up and down that the insults were a sign of affection.  Jason wasn’t Dick.

"I know," Damian returned.

Jason could never be sure if he had actually said the last bit aloud.

_**Change the voices in your head.** _

Damian found Jason in the cemetery, looking up at the unadorned stone that represented a loss no one could acknowledge.  Hush walked the streets and smiled for the paparazzi.  Damian argued with Fox and no one blinked at the bizarre custody arrangement that granted them Timothy.

Batman flew above the streets while Bruce Wayne was interred in secret below.

Wrapping an arm around the younger man’s shoulders, Damian never glanced to the left or right and likewise, Jason kept his focus on the blank headstone over an empty grave.  The smaller markers that spoke of their personal nightmares were best ignored.

Miracles did not undo failure.

Jason tried to shrug Damian off; the older hero got a better grip and reeled his little brother in with an aggravated “tt.”  Jason barely struggled before tiredly resting his head against Damian’s shoulder.  It worked for now, but soon his little brother would catch up in height.  Eighteen or not, with the way that Jason ate these days there would be at least one more growth spurt in the future for Robin 3.0.

It was funny; Dick barely reached Damian’s shoulder, and not even the thickest rogues would mistake Red Robin and Black Bat for each other now.

It was better that way.

"I can’t stay here," Jason muttered into Damian’s neck.  "You know I can’t."

"I’d like to see you get past Stephanie and Cassandra," Damian returned shortly, tightening his grip on the teenager.  "So you can’t leave either."

_**I’m safe up high.  Nothing can touch me.** _

Quietly, Cassandra scaled the tree outside Dick’s window.  Running along the railing of the older boy’s balcony, she leapt for the window ledge of the next floor, sliding along its length and reaching for the next.  She climbed quickly, moving across the roof to the other side of the family wing and dropping neatly, catching the gutter with her fingertips.

A soft swing and Cass landed in a silent crouch on the carpet of her bedroom just beyond the French doors that she had deliberately left open earlier for this exact purpose.

Before she could quietly celebrate her victorious return, the lights came on and illuminated a silhouette more frightening than Batman’s … that of her older brother and guardian.

Cassandra bit her lip, ducking her head, and peering up hopefully through her bangs as Steph had taught her.  “Busted?” she asked plaintively, borrowing Tim’s word in hopes of a lighter sentence.

"Indeed," Damian answered, utterly unmoved.  When her older brother chose to be still, Cass could read nothing in his body language, but what he wanted her to see.  "Try _grounded._ Forever.”

Then the man unfolded, closing the distance between them with a single step, and wrapped Cass in an embrace so tight she could barely breathe.  He rained gruff endearments upon her head, a combination of sweet words in other languages and insults that Cass had grown immune to.

She could read him now even if half his words meant nothing to her, and every line of his body suggested a deep-seated relief.

"Sorry," she tried again.  "Sorry."

_**You’ve gotta get up and try, try, try.** _

Damian got out of the jet mechanically.  He took four steps away from the jet and his hovering father, before the world abruptly came back into focus.  It only took another desperate lunge to reach the railing and empty his stomach into the chasm below.

His father firmly turned Damian away from the rail when the younger man was finished, and carefully peeled away the cowl with a dexterity belied by the senior Batman’s heavy black gauntlets.

Damian wondered if his eyes were as wide and shocked as his clone’s had been in the instant of his death.  The serums and therapies that Talia had used to age her second son suffered mixed results.  In some ways, his clone was both much older and much younger than Damian.  The monster’s face, however, had always been an uncomfortable mirror.

The Heretic.

The Fatherless.

Damian spun away from his father’s concerned gaze and leaned over the rail again as dry-heaves wracked his body.  After a long moment, his father cautiously rubbed Damian’s back although the comforting touch was dulled by the layers of protective armor.

None of his siblings were in the Cave and crowding Damian for attention, so Father must have called ahead to the Cave and warned them off.  Not even Timothy had come running to meet the jet.  It was just Damian and Bruce slowly sinking to the floor under the weight of the day’s events.

"I can’t do it," Damian choked out, scrabbling at his throat until he could release the cape.  "I can’t be Batman.  I’m not worthy."

His father caught Damian’s chin, lifting it to meet older, wiser eyes.  “You are Batman,” his hero said simply, laying his free hand over the Bat symbol emblazoned across both their chests.  “You are Batman, and Damian … Damian, I’m proud of you.”

"I failed!"

"You tried," his father murmured into his ear, folding Damian into an embrace that the younger Bat could not shake off.  "You tried when others would have said there was nothing to save."

"There was nothing," Damian insisted.  "She made him nothing.  He didn’t even have a name."

"Of course he had a name," his father snorted.  "In all these years, I have never known you to be able to resist naming every sad creature to come across your path."

"Benjamin," Damian admitted after a long moment.  "I called him Ben-oni.  He called me Bastard."

If Damian had looked up, he would have seen a grim smile on his Father’s face.  “Look at that,” the older man murmured, draping his own cape around Damian’s shoulders.  “The two of you had the same sense of humor.  Must have been something worth this grief after all.”


	4. She Lived Like She Knew Nothing Lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph focuses on the positive, on the good, on all the things that she can change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the song “Angel” by the Corrs.

_**It isn’t so wrong to have such fun.** _

"I am being punished," Damian announced flatly, planting his feet and refusing to go a step further.  Stephanie tried to tug on his arm, but the man hastily withdrew the opportunity by crossing both over his chest defensively.  "I demand to know my crimes."

"D, you’re making a scene," Steph hissed.  "Can’t you just suffer in silence a little bit longer?  Once we have all the intel, we’ll suit up and kick ass, okay?  You can take out all of your frustration on Two-Face, I swear."

"This is an affront to all humanity," Damian intoned as a large over-stuffed figure passed them by, the character suit’s unfortunately large eyes pointed in opposite directions.

"It’s a theme park, Damian," Steph disagreed, linking her arm through his with some pointed digging.  "I’m pretty sure it has all the best parts of humanity rolled up into it.  Food, entertainment, thrills, sunshine …"

"I should have stayed in bed this morning," Damian predicted darkly.

Steph tilted her head to the side.  “I don’t think you’re physically capable of sleeping past sun-up.  Unless you’re sedated of course.”

"Sedated?" a particularly irritating voice piped up from behind them.

Tommy the “Tuba” had lost a coin toss with Two-Face and had been saved only by Batman and Robin’s impeccable timing.  Unfortunately, the villain had escaped.  Tommy was one of the more headache-inducing leads that Batman had to work with, and his Robins—past and present—had drawn the short-straw of keeping the teen alive and squeezing him for information.

Steph rolled her eyes, but shot a quick grin over her shoulder at the other teenagers.  “Appendicitis,” she giggled.  “Li’l Matches says the _cutest_ things when he’s loopy.”

"Tt."

Steph stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, impressed that the older vigilante allowed it, holding her close long enough to whisper threateningly:  “If at any point, this moron attempts to drug me for theoretical intelligence on the Malone family, it will be all your fault.”

"C’mon," she teased, taking a step back and conceding the point with shrug.  "You promised to take me someplace nice, and this is nice."

"You need your head examined," Damian observed drolly.

"Matches, you can’t talk to a pretty girl like that," Tommy chuckled, slapping Damian on the back as the informant led his own date up to the ticket booth.  "Keep it sweet, man.  Keep it sweet."

Steph held her breath until the other teens were safely stowed in a Ferris Wheel car.  Damian slowly relaxed at her side, one muscle at a time.

Finally, Damian exhaled slowly.  “Give me one good reason not to let Two-Face have him,” he bid almost cordially as he offered Steph a hand into their own car.

"Just as soon as I think of one," Steph promised."

_**I still hear her laugh like she’s here.** _

“Where did you get this?”

The older man’s snarl made Dick flinch, and the teen craned his neck awkwardly, twisting in midair as he fell from the railing and tried to maintain eye contact simultaneously.

Damian leapt the railing easily, and seized the purple leather-bound book before Dick could formulate an answer that would pacify the former assassin.

There wasn’t such an answer.

 _Stephanie Brown wrote in loopy cursive and capitalized the word_ Gravity _which she liked to refer to as her personal nemesis.  Stephanie Brown had a (fortunately brief) crush on Nightwing prior to becoming Robin, and was determined to pilot the Batplane before she turned thirty-five._

In hindsight, stealing her diary from the room that Dick and Jason were not even allowed to enter in the first place was probably not among the acrobat’s smarter plans. Even Jason wanted nothing to do with it, and that should have been all the warning Dick needed.

Damian had every reason to be livid.

_Stephanie Brown loved Damian’s dog, the colour purple (“Eggplant!”), and Alfred.  The last had to be true or the blonde would never have been able to keep eating the awful waffles that the butler prepared every year for her birthday breakfast._

“She was …”   Funny.  Flawed.  Fortunate.  “… real.”

“Of course she was real, Grayson,” Damian sneered, and Dick felt a little sick to his stomach at the tone.  “The two of you would not fall so short otherwise.”

Dick flinched.

The older vigilante was just starting to get used to Dick and Jason living in the Manor, even tolerating them (mostly Dick) in the Robin suit, and now all the hard work that Dick had put into befriending Damian was going down the toilet because of the teenager’s insatiable curiousity.

"I’m sorry," Dick blurted out, barely able to restrain himself from embracing his foster-brother.  Damian didn’t like Dick’s clingy behaviour.  No one in the house did.  "I’m really sorry."

Damian loomed menacingly for another minute, before visibly brushing the offense—and by extension, Dick—aside.  “You will not speak a word of this to my father, Grayson,” he issued in a short, clipped tone that only came out when Damian was dealing with a particularly unpleasant chore …

… or on certain occasions, Jason and Dick.

Dick promised as sincerely as he knew how, although he doubted it had much effect on the older vigilante’s mood.  He sank miserably down onto the richly carpeted steps in the front hall, and pulled at his ridiculously curly hair.

He hadn’t expected Damian to turn back at the last moment.  “She would have liked you,” Damian announced abruptly.  “For mercy’s sake, she probably would have liked Todd.  She had absolutely no standards.”

Dick stared; Damian glowered darkly back at him.

"Now, wipe that stupid look off your face, get up off the floor, and find something useful to do, Grayson."

_**For every fall, I’ll ever break …** _

Steph had saved Barbara for last, and when she let herself into the Oracle’s skylight, the redhead wasn’t surprised to see her.  In fact, Steph had to dodge a batarang immediately upon entry.

Twice, there was some kind of rebound tech incorporated into the newer model.

"Missed you too, Stephanie," Steph grumbled, and scooped up the weapon for closer inspection.  "Nice to see you.  How have you been, Steph?’

Babs just crossed her arms.

Steph took that as tacit approval and wandered around the other heroine’s base of operations. 

"You’ve done a good job with this place," Steph complimented offhand as she poked computer servers taller than she is.  "Let me guess, you built half of it yourself."

"Damian helped when I let him," Babs gave the barest inch.  Steph would take it.  She would take inch by inch until Babs forgave her.  It was inevitable … like mold.  "He was a joy to be around, let me tell you.  You know, back when we thought you were dead."

"I was dead!" Steph snapped, her red cloak giving the spin dramatic effect.  She was starting to see why B loves his long cape so.  "I died, and it sucked, and then I was back …" Steph exhaled slowly.  She was not angry.  She was not … not at one of her closest friends.  It was the pit even if the effects were not supposed to last this long.  "… and it sucked more.  Damian’s mom _really_ doesn’t like me.”

"Talia al Ghul brought you back," Babs said like it was that simple and the Lazarus Pit explained everything.  Which it didn’t; there were a thousand questions for which Steph had no answers.

"I am not a tool to win Damian back for her," Steph muttered, pulling her cloak around her shoulders tightly as she perched on an empty portion of console.  "She can apologize for whatever she did to make him stop talking to her in the first place; I have other things to do in Gotham."

"I noticed that the Joker was returned to Arkham in the end," Babs accepted the change in subject gracefully.  "And that Nightwing has been removed from patrol for a few weeks."

"He wasn’t supposed to fall off the building," Steph sulked.

"Damian isn’t supposed to do a lot of things," Babs allowed.  Then:  "the Joker?"

"I never wanted to kill him," Stephanie sighed.  She’s had to explain herself to Bruce, and to Alfred, and to the baby Robins in the Cave, and now she has to explain herself to Babs.  "A few hours with a crowbar, sure," Steph admitted, "or maybe a free sucker punch that doesn’t come with the usual lectures on precision and morality, but I don’t want … if I make that choice, I’ll have to live with it forever."  She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin against them.

Babs waited for her to sort it out.

"I do want him dead," Steph decided.  "For everything he’s done to us, to me, you, Damian, B, and everyone else that he’s ever hurt.  For everyone that he will hurt in the future, because mad men have rights too and Arkham will never hold him for long.  I want him dead, but I don’t want that death on my conscience.  I don’t want it on Bruce’s or Damian’s.  I don’t want it on yours."

Babs inclined her head, and Steph knew that Damian wasn’t the only one to consider her worth avenging.  She didn’t want to know how close her friend came to making that decision.

"The Joker didn’t do this to me," Babs finally broke the awkward silence.  "He may have held the gun, but I took this on myself.  I put myself between the gun and a friend.  I did that, and I would do it again."

"Well, you shouldn’t have," Steph snapped, fixing her friend with a dirty look.  "It was stupid as hell, Babs—you were _done!_   You were retired!  And sixteen!  I was going to die anyway!”

"You were sixteen too," Babs returned, one eyebrow raised.  "And I don’t care if it bought you thirty seconds, thirty hours, or thirty years.  This is my sacrifice and my story, and you don’t get to take that from me, Stephanie Brown."

Stephanie recoiled.

"I am so angry with you," Babs continued, "because you have been in Gotham for almost a month without telling anyone."

Steph opened her mouth to protest, but Babs waved it aside.

"Damian doesn’t count," the redhead told her.  "You were here and getting in the way … getting into my system and making us all think that we were going crazy, but you didn’t have the decency to tell us otherwise."

Steph hung her head.  “Everything changed.  I wasn’t sure where I fit in anymore.”

"You fit in exactly where you always did with the bat-wrangling and demon-wrangling, and apparently now you’ve taken up a sideline in rescuing Robins."  Babs shook her head.  "You should have come home, Steph.  Without the theatrics."  Out of nowhere, Babs flung one arm out to point at Steph’s costume with an accusing air.  "And that outfit is a travesty masquerading as a death wish.  Body armour is not something _new_ , Steph.”

Steph gaped at Babs.

Babs crossed her arms again.  “There is one correct answer to all of that, and it’s _You are right, Babs.  You’re always right._   Do not make me kick your ass.  I’ve been training hard, and I can do it from here.”

Steph dutifully parroted the Oracle’s wisdom, and stared at her booted feet.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, and I’ll do better.  I can fix it.  I will fix it, and … and could I just have a hug now?” she finished hopefully.

"Would you just get over here already?" Babs huffed, throwing open her arms like that was all the redhead was waiting on.

_**Confidence and Conscience** _

It was a joke at first.  Damian had referred to Jason as _Red’s Robin_ on a joint case, and Barbara had latched onto the code name distinguishment with a grip of iron.  Like the _Bat’s Girl_ before him, Jason soon found himself answering to Red Robin over the comms.

He had Steph to thank for the new suit.  Annoyed at being limited by the current Robin schedule and also the amount of time Batman encroached on her Robin-time due to crisis after crisis, Steph bypassed Bruce entirely and took her case to Alfred.

The butler agreed that a unique suit of Jason’s own would allow both Robins to venture out simultaneously without giving away their usual double act … providing of course that Dick and Jason each obtained a bare minimum of forty-eight hours of sleep per week and their grades remained in an acceptable range.

Batman really didn’t stand a chance against Alfred.

The new suit incorporated a few key features from the original designs that Dick and Jason had originally contributed to their Robin uniform (not the scaly panties, thank goodness).  The end result left Jason with a new survival suit, bandoliers for his gear, and a new insignia.

Steph had vetoed the cowl though.  She said that it would remind people of Doctor Midnite, and suggested a domino rather than the full mask that she wore.  After all, Jason’s secret identity hadn’t been leaked on national television; there was no reason to completely hide his handsome face, Steph teased.

Surveying his new look in the mirror, Jason thought that it looked a little bit like Damian’s old uniform from far away.  Less eccentric choices in footwear perhaps and the red colouring came from the survival suit itself rather than the traditional Robin tunic.  Up close, the bandoliers of explosives and the bird on his chest still made the costume uniquely Jason’s.

"Lookin’ good, Jaybird," Steph teased him.  The blonde was lounging across his bed with Titus at her back and an American History textbook open in front of her.

They were both pretending rather magnificently that the files on their target’s little corner of the mob had not been hastily stashed under his bed when Alfred showed up to do the final fitting.

The butler probably knew, but he was gracious enough to pretend otherwise.

"I am glad you approve, Mistress Stephanie," Alfred intoned as he inspected the final uniform with a critical eye.  "Now perhaps a few modifications to your own uniform … a standard Kevlar vest for instance?"

Steph shot him a quick thumbs up alongside a sheepish grin.  “Go for it, Alfred.  I trust your impeccable taste.”

"As you well should," Alfred agreed benevolently.

"This man," Steph stage-whispered to Jason, "saved me from quite a few fashion faux-pas.  Fashion tip: neon colours flatter no one."  Steph rolled over to give Titus some loving attention.  "I even have it on good authority that he was the one responsible for the retirement of Damian’s extensive sweater-vest collection too."

"Now, let’s not go telling tales, young lady," Alfred admonished, smoothing an imperceptible wrinkle out of Jason’s cape.  "Those chemical compounds were highly unstable.  Master Damian was lucky to escape grave injury."  The butler’s mustache twitched.  "I have always personally suspected Master Bruce’s involvement.  He hated the sweater vests of his own youth."

Jason stared at them both incredulously.  They had to be joking.  He could not imagine the other residents of the manor playing such a practical joke with potentially dangerous chemicals, and he wasn’t used to Alfred teasing Bruce and Damian like this, egged on by the newly-returned Stephanie.  Sarcasm, sure, but not outright teasing.

Heck, Jason wasn’t used to anyone teasing Bruce or Damian with the possible exception of Dick, who had no survival instinct and feared nothing.  He was both a little bit in love with Steph and also terrified.

"Pictures, Alfred," Steph chirped from her spot on the bed, "or it didn’t happen."

"Oh, it most certainly did," the butler pronounced with great relish.  "You have so much to catch up on, Mistress Stephanie."

They all did.

_**I’ll be proud to be like you.** _

This is nothing like the shopping montages that Cass has seen on TV.

They don’t take turns trying on every outfit in the store and no one takes pictures of her posing in front of the three-way mirrors.  Alfred quietly makes any bags disappear, and the butler works with Steph to make sure that Cass is completely outfitted for her new lifestyle as Gotham heiress and vigilante.  And while her new clothes are lovely, her temporary guardians are astonishingly thorough.  Nothing has been overlooked from a good winter jacket to new underwear, suitable workout clothes to motorcycle boots.

Cassandra has never driven a motorcycle.  Jason and Damian are fighting over who gets to teach her.

The clothing keeps coming in massive quantities, and the sheer amount of choice overwhelms Cass.  Steph takes the lead in narrowing the choices down, selecting things with Cass’ previous choices in mind and never offering more than two things at a time to choose from.  She waves off all sales associates, and disappears back into the racks for different sizes with the same dedication that the Red Hood shows training and undercover ops: _Get it done, do it well, have fun doing it._

The nice thing is that Steph does all of this without a single word.  Despite the noisy bustle of the otherwise unobtrusive shopping mall, their party is quiet.  Steph and Alfred are speaking her language, and Cass loves them for it.

They take a break after spending some time looking for the perfect sneaker, and Steph treats Cass to pizza in the foodcourt.  It’s Gotham-style pizza, overloaded with sweet sauce and gooey cheese.  It’s good but messy, and Cass grins when Steph silently teases Alfred for using silverware to eat his.

"Thank you," Cass verbalizes, giving permission to return to the spoken word.  "For this.  For shopping.  For me."

Steph pushes her hair back with the ridiculously oversized sunglasses that Bruce and Damian insisted the both of them wear on this little adventure.  “No problem,” the older girl answers, and Cass likes that phrase.

'No problem' is one of Jason's favorites, and it really means _anything_ and _always_ and sometimes ‘I’ve got this.’  Mostly it means _anything_ and _always_ especially when Cass’ new siblings are the ones saying it.

Steph smiles at her, and Cass barely resists the urge to try the sunglasses trick with her own short hair.  “Well, Dick and Jason are not allowed to go shopping,” the blonde allows, sipping her soda and making funny sounds when she runs out.  “They can barely dress themselves.” 

Cass doesn’t follow all of this, but she can read the joke at her brothers’ expense in the tilt of Steph’s head and the open motion of Steph’s forearm which bares the inside of the older girl’s wrist.  “Damian would have been a good choice,” Steph continues, “but then the paparazzi would have inevitably gotten involved.”  Steph mimes clicking an invisible camera, but the makeshift sign language is unnecessary; Cass recognizes the word _paparazzi_.

This is her first expedition without the paparazzi’s undivided attention since being adopted.  She does not like the cameras and the questions that assault her eyes and ears.  Her oldest brother is particularly vicious when confronting the paparazzi, and like Bruce, Damian makes a sizeable human shield when he’s not off antagonizing humanity.

As if following her thoughts, Steph chirps, “Bruce too.”  The older girl isn’t normally a chatterbox like Dick, but she had just spent the better part of four hours completely silent for Cass’ sake.  Also, the older girl is deflecting.  Cass can see it in the dismissive hand gestures.  “He courts the paparazzi, and the man would have been completely useless—”

"Thank you," Cass emphasizes, and Steph ducks her head, still smiling like Cass’ appreciation was too precious for something this mundane.  Cass can see why Jason likes Steph so much, because the blonde is loud and funny and brave.  She talks big and tries hard, but Steph can still fold up small.  "Thank you for this.  For me."

"What are sisters for?" Steph shrugs.  She chucks her empty soda cup into the garbage bin and Cass mimics the move without turning around.  "Show-off" the blonde accuses with a snort, tossing a balled-up napkin in Cass’ direction.

The teenager catches the makeshift missile and dunks that too.  “Sister,” she corrects.

"I guess I’ll keep you around anyway," Steph agrees, pulling Cass to her feet and looping one arm around the younger girl’s neck.  "You know what?  Let’s go rejuvenate ourselves by cuddling the shelter animals, and we’ll make an outrageous charitable donation on Bruce Wayne’s card.  Or Damian’s.  I have Damian’s too.  We can pick him up a souvenir, sort out a decent swimsuit, and call it a day …"

Cass soon loses the verbal train of thought again, but she beams when she catches the promise of a ‘spar’ later.  “Beat you,” she promises with great relish.

Steph makes as if to push her into the nearby fountain, but her arm stays securely around Cass’ shoulders.  “It is so on,” the blonde announces.  “You are going down.”

"You always say that.  You always lose," Cass disagrees, pushing her hair back with the sunglasses … just like Stephanie, her sister.

_**… for loving when I had the chance.** _

It didn’t bother Steph, except when it really, kind of, sort of did.  They would be at some huge charity event or appeasing the PR department with ‘adorable’ Timothy and ‘shy’ Cassandra softening the harsh lines of their older brother’s public figure and Steph on his arm to ward off the socialites.

Damian Wayne was not his father, and playboy was not an image that he felt the need to live up to.  A committed relationship with the fictional Constance Abernathy, a criminal justice student from New York with a minor in psychology and a hellish commute, was a sufficient veneer for what would be a short series of personal, deeply-committed relationships over the years.

Love meant something to Damian, although he defined it differently then most men might.

So it bothered Steph to occasionally overhear Damian—who never called her by her undercover name or even the softer “Connie” that Tim and Cass affected in front of the paparazzi, but always ‘that/this woman’—pronounce with suitable gravity the depth of his committment to whoever happened to be in range.  From private conversations to public speeches, Damian reaffirmed the worth of the blonde woman at his side regardless of identity.

"I consider that woman my other half."

"I could not have achieved my goal without this woman at my side."

"She is my partner."

"I could not live without her; believe me, I have tried."

And of course the paparazzi favorite that no interviewer had ever been able to wrangle further details about some suspected short-lived break-up: “Once, I thought that I had lost her forever.  I will not make the same mistake twice.”

They were not the romantic declarations the public world assumed—Damian was so careful and exact with his wording—but they could have been.

So Steph worried about it.

And during one training session, she confronted Damian about it in typically blunt Steph Brown fashion.  “You are _not_ in love with me,” she insisted out of nowhere, blocking a jab to the face and dropping to sweep Damian’s feet out from under him.

The look on his face as he rolled back to his feet again was reassuring in its assumption that Stephanie had gone completely daft.  “Decidedly not,” he uttered with such contempt that Steph could have kissed him if she wasn’t busy fighting for her life and dignity.

"We’re not really together," Steph stressed, because Constance Abernathy might be a twenty-three year old grad student, but Stephanie Brown was some months off being legally allowed to drink the champagne at such fancy parties.

… if she wasn’t _legally_ dead of course.

"No," Damian continued, narrating as if to Cass or Tim something unpleasant, but regrettably necessary.  He had worn the same pinched expression when Poison Ivy had necessitated ‘The Talk’ being given to Tim several years ahead of Damian’s schedule.  "I was fond of Nell, if perhaps fonder than she was of me," and Steph knew that particular break-up was still a sore point for the man.  Damian’s lip curled in distaste.  "And you persist in being enamored with that unworthy detective."

"I like Nick," Steph dutifully protested, springing into a cartwheel, round off, back handspring rather than let Damian box her into the corner of the gym.  "He’s cute and kinda clueless, but he’s really determined to make things right."

"A match made in heaven," Damian acknowledged dryly, "or possibly hell."

Steph narrowed his eyes, and attacked with new fervor that kept Damian’s attention on the fight and prevented further commentary on her occasionally-complicated love life.

It wasn’t until they were cooling down and jostling for first shower that Damian returned to the subject.  “Explain yourself,” he instructed, taking advantage of longer legs and ninja speed to duck into the shower ahead of her.

Steph settled against the Cave wall outside the cubicle, and crossed her arms.  “And how do we ask for things again?” she called loudly over the running water.  “What’s the magic word?”

She could almost imagine the way Damian’s face screwed up in pained exasperation.  However, they had a long history that was built on mutual respect, humiliation, and the occasional brick; Damian knew that there were some fights he would not win.  A faultless mimic, he proceeded to affect a high, breathy voice worthy of any teenage drama queen: _"Details!"_

Yeah, it was still just as funny as when Steph first blackmailed him into doing it six years ago.

"You say the sweetest things at parties," Steph told him.  "It makes me worry about you."

"I am not sweet," Damian immediately disagreed in his normal voice.  "I speak only the truth."

"That’s what worries me," Steph sighed.  "You are not that good of an actor, D, and you sound really committed.  Not to Constance.  They just make that assumption.  You sound committed … to me."  She could feel her cheeks turn red, because the Bats had a long histoy of not talking about feelings and it worked for them.

At least in the short term.

The water turned off, and Damian stuck his head out to glare at her.  “I am committed to you.  How dare you question that?”

It was like talking to the Cave wall.  Or Bruce.  The wall would at least bounce back the sound accurately.

"D, you make it sound like I’m the most important thing to you!" Steph threw up her hands.  "More important than Nell or Milagro.  It’s like you have this scale of importance, and I fall somewhere between the rest of the family and Batman!’

Damian retreated back into the shower with a towel and was silent for several minutes.  Steph knew that meant Damian was attempting to find a defensible position to disagree with her … only without actually disagreeing.

"My siblings are all precious to me," he decided upon, his voice muffled by the towel.  "You cannot measure that, Brown, no more than you could decide on just one doughnut amongst a dozen."

"Watch it, D," she warned.

"My point, Brown," Damian continued unbothered, "is that you are my partner.  My sister.  My friend.  We fight together for Gotham and this family.  We attempt to raise Timothy and Cassandra together with some assistance from Barbara.  You have been my closest confidante for nearly a decade—alive or dead—and I very nearly broke a promise to my father in order to see your murderer face justice.  That will never change no matter who I eventually marry, and is not contingent upon your taste in men."

"You enjoy reducing the assholes to quivering goo before I can get to them," Steph accused, "and unnecessarily traumatizing the decent ones."

"It is a strange satisfaction in and of itself," Damian agreed, stepping out from the shower in only a towel.  "Take Cassandra’s suggestion and become faster."

Steph shook her head slowly taking in the sight of Batman unmasked—the peak of physical perfection according to Talia al Ghul—muscle, scars, and impossibly blue eyes framed by positively unfair eyelashes.  She concentrated really hard on her teenage crush for a hero … and yeah, it was dead.

It had been dead since he threw up in her lap at a Wayne event when they were still teenagers because the flu, alcohol, and Poison Ivy’s toxins were a bad, _bad_ combination.  It was dead, because Damian watched Italian and Japanese soap operas without subtitles and refused to flatter with his pencil when he draws his siblings.  He took too darn long in the shower, and dang it, his tragic sense of nobility was going to get him killed one day if Steph wasn’t there to watch his back.

Partners worked.

"I just might," she decided, rocking to her feet in one smooth movement and then on tiptoe to plant a kiss on Damian’s cheek before he could dodge the attempt.  "Love you," she announced as she darted past him into the shower stall, because Steph was not a repressed man-child incapable of voicing sentimental words.

So, the next time the paparazzi looked to her for a response to Damian’s little compliments, Steph just beamed at the camera thrust in her face and enthusiastically assured the reporter: “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.  _‘Til death do us part_ ,” she quoted sweetly, tucking her gloved hands into Damian’s arm as they were whisked away from the annual Christmas party by Alfred for a spot of crime-fighting.

No one even reported the major Arkham break-out that night, because the ensuing  ‘secret marriage’ theories kept the paparazzi busy for _months_.


	5. Looking for My Old Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were two boys, but there is only one Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the song “Save Me from Myself” by Vertical Horizon.

_**We’re mouth-to-mouth, and still I suffocate.** _

* * *

“Good morning, Alfred.  Morning, Bruce.”  Dick narrowed his eyes at their mentor: “You didn’t go to bed at all, did you, Boss?”

He was still testing out Jason’s affectionate nickname for Bruce, but it sounded mostly okay.  Dick would get used to it soon enough.

“Had to go out again,” Bruce hid a yawn behind the paper.  “Incident down on the docks.”

“Casualties?”

“Just a shipment of knock-off purses,” Bruce admitted, scowling at Alfred.  Apparently, the butler had already addressed the subject.  “False alarm.”

“You need to get more sleep, Bruce,” Dick scolded anyway, and was rewarded with both a pat on the head and extra bacon.  It paid to ingratiate oneself  to Alfred.

“Well, Brucie has a meeting that he will conveniently forget after he gets Jason to school,” his mentor conceded, abusing the third-person.  “I’ll catch up then.”

Alfred sniffed disapprovingly.  “Where is Master Jason?”

Dick frowned; Jason should have beaten him downstairs at the first whiff of food.  He started to get up, but Bruce stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.  “Eat your breakfast.  I’ll go get Jason.”

It seemed to take forever, but if Dick so much as fidgeted in his seat, Alfred would fix him with a stern look.  Stay put.  It was the hardest Robin-lesson for Dick to master.

Bruce finally came back, but without Jason.  Dick felt his heart stutter in his chest as he watched millionaire and butler switch places without a word, but Bruce blocked the doorway with his entire body when Dick would have rabbited after the elderly man.

Bruce was talking, but Dick didn’t hear it until the man gripped his shoulders and shook him the way Jason had in the beginning.  “Jason will be fine,” his mentor insisted, staring Dick down.  It was weird; Bruce didn’t really make eye contact with them.  Dick thought that Bruce didn’t really like looking at them.  Then again, Bruce didn’t really like looking at anyone.

Dick latched onto that direct gaze, and pretended it was Nightwing.  Damian may actively hate them all, but the man always looked you in the eye when he was telling the truth.  Damian was blunt and unapologetic … and Jason had to be okay.

"He’ll be fine," Bruce repeated.  "Alfred will take care of him, but I need you now.  Jason needs you," he appealed, and really, the older vigilante should have led with that.  Dick would do anything for his brother.

"What can I do?" Dick demanded softly, pulling himself together.

Bruce continued to look at him hard, and just as Dick was almost angry enough to try throwing a punch, the man gave him his answer.  “Be Jason for today.”

Be Jason.  Go to school instead of Dick’s home-tutoring sessions with Barbara.  Stop by Wayne Enterprises afterward and drag the millionaire out into the public eye.  Smile at the paparazzi, and stay in tonight when it should have been Dick’s turn to patrol.  Be Jason.

"No problem."

* * *

  _ **Trying to find another place to start** _

* * *

 

Dick had fallen asleep in the Cave waiting up for them.  The fourteen year old was curled up in Bruce’s chair at the computer with the blanket from his bed, so Jason figured that his brother had at least tried going to bed, but been driven down to the Cave by nightmares.

He let it go for the moment and peeled off his tunic, abandoning it in Alfred’s laundry cart.  He was soaked through from the relentless rain, but otherwise unscathed.

A solid week of playing Robin solo, and the younger Robin hadn’t seen anything scarier than a couple muggers.  Jason swore that all the interesting stuff happened on Dick’s shift, and not just the good kind of interesting either.  This whole thing with Two Face had really messed Dick up.

Jason skipped the shower and exchanged the undersuit for a set of sweats.  He slicked his wet hair back and went to head off Bruce before their guardian gave Dickie-bird a heart-attack.

The Batman has a bad habit of quietly looming, and Dick startled as badly as Jason if someone hovered these days.

“C’mon, bro,” Jason coached quietly before he even reached the chair.  “Up and at ‘em.  B’s got reports to write, and I’ve got a test in Global first period that I ain’t even studied for yet.”

Dick cracked open one eye blearily.  Some of the bruises had started to fade from his skin, but there was still some splendid green and yellow colouring over his broken nose.  “Patrol?”

“B made a mugger cry,” Jason reported, crouching to get under Dick’s arm and haul his brother out of the chair.  The other teen was supposed to be taking it easy on the sprained ankle so of course his crutches were nowhere in sight.  “I lost a staring contest with a stray cat.  Very exciting.  My room or yours?”

“Yours is closer.”

Very true … by about ten feet.

They had each been given a bedroom upon arriving, and Alfred seemed to take a particular delight in customizing them to each boy’s tastes … but the gesture was too big.  Dick had confided that his new bedroom was larger than the entire trailer that he had shared with his parents, while Jason preferred to keep his own observation private—that his new bed was bigger than the closet-sized bedroom he had in his mother’s apartment.

They switched it up—sharing space, taking turns, sleeping in the cave, exchanging rooms, constantly moving in and out—anything to delay that sense of belonging somewhere, of owning something, of taking that last step into their new lives.

As long as home was still something that could be packed up and taken with them, they were still Dick Grayson, circus acrobat, and Jason Todd, tire thief, under the mask.

Dick collided with the bed, listing until he was sort of horizontal, and buried his face in the closest pillow.  It just so happened to be Jason’s, but the younger boy let it go.

“You take your pain medication, boy wonder?”

Dick mumbled something into the pillow that sounded like “Alfred.”  Jason would take that as confirmation; he had faith in the butler’s ability to micromanage the entire healing process.

As if he had tempted fate, Jason sneezed twice.  Sort of.  Jason always managed to stifle the first sneeze, which made the second one sound akin to a dying frog.

“Ugh,” Dick grimaced sympathetically as he rolled over.  “Go shower before you get pneumonia or something and we’re both fired.”

“You’re not fired,” Jason shot back, ignoring the advice in favour of toweling his hair dry.  “Batman would be screwed if he went up against a real rogue without the useful Robin.”

Dick threw the pillow at him, and Jason whipped it right back.

“I’m good at pounding stuff,” Jason acknowledged.  “You’re the smart one with the flips and the foreign languages, and fancy detective work.”

“You can do anything I can do,” Dick argued.

“Well, yeah,” Jason snorted, pulling a dry shirt over his head, “because you taught me how.”  He performed a dramatic belly-flop onto his side of the bed and buried his face into the spare pillow.  “And I put in a $^(%-ton of practice,” he mumbled into the material.

“Practice makes perfect,” Dick intoned righteously from above even as he started to hog the blankets.

Jason shoved his brother off the bed.  It didn’t hurt Dick any; the spoiled little $#!+ took the blankets with him.

* * *

_**The kids come back, and I’m just looking …** _

* * *

"If I hear one more word about Stephanie Brown, patron saint of the sidekicks, I will sic Nightwing on you all," Dick announced to the room of theoretically adult superheroes.

Some shifted uncomfortably, and Bruce, of course, had closed off instantly at the mention of his lost Robin.  Dick could work with that; repressed and stoic Batman was easier to deal with than Bruce’s one-sided rivalry with the Kryptonian hero across the table.

The members of the Justice League who were aware of Robin’s dual nature numbered just four.  None of Jason and Dick’s newfound teammates knew, which could only be for the best considering how their mentors were just full of ideas on how to better manage other people’s sidekicks for them.

The new generation of Titans may be over as swiftly as it had begun if Robin can’t manage a little damage control with the League.  The adult heroes couldn’t reasonably protest the cooperation of their students after sticking the lot of them at the kiddie table together every time the entire world needed to be saved.

The Justice League saved the planet.  The Teen Titans saved Hawaii.  They should be celebrating—not rehashing this old argument.

Dick looked at Jason.  The other boy shrugged one shoulder, gesturing slightly with one hand to indicate that Dick was doing okay so far.  The former-acrobat relaxed a little bit; if he got stuck, Jason would take over.

There were two of them, but one Robin … and for once, both Dick and Jason were in uniform.

"I am Robin," he announced, trying not to sulk in front of Wonder Woman.  The heroine considered Jason’s less well-known civilian identity and legal relationship to Bruce to be more useful.  "Jason is Robin," he continued, pointedly projecting his annoyance at the Martian Manhunter, who favoured Dick on the rare instances that the Martian joined in the debate.  It bothered Jason a little bit more every time it came up, and what bothered Jason, bothered Dick.

 ”We,” Dick emphasized pointedly, “are Robin.”

Then he kicked Jason under the table, because this was a reminder for his sort-of-twin too.

Jason scowled, not quite meeting Superman’s eye as he continued where Dick left off.  “That’s not going to change.  The Titans put Robin in charge, and we’ll make it work.  We always do.”

"We won’t let you down, boss," Dick chirped at their mentor, letting Jason’s nickname for Bruce slip off his tongue.  Bruce didn’t unfold entirely, but he aimed the power of his disapproving stare at his colleagues.  That helped; it was hard to argue with their heroes, and both boys respected the men and woman at this table too much to feel entirely comfortable with prolonged defiance.

"It’s a lot of responsibility," Clark offered diplomatically, "even for a vigilante who can be in two places at once.  It’s also a rather large secret to keep from your teammates," the man included them both in his gesture, "some of whom have abilities that could counteract your usual methods of obscuring the truth.  What makes you boys think that you can make something like this work?"

Jason and Dick shared an identical shrug.  They did it already.  There were two boys for the social workers, the school officials, the media, and sometimes Alfred to study, but Gotham and Batman had only the one Robin.  Uncle Rick wanted Dick, and Wayne Enterprises needed Jason.  The League knew of both, and the Titans wouldn’t.

So, they would have to take precautions against Wally’s speed and Gar’s other forms?  They would need to appease Donna’s suspicions and Roy’s paranoia too.  Jason and Dick could do it.  After all:

"We’re Robin," they chimed as one.

* * *

  ** _Happy endings all around and still they haunt me._ **

* * *

It was like the best prank ever played.

Being Robin.  Being Jason Todd-Wayne.  Being Robin.

Being Dick on occasion (only from behind and afar and when it was really important).

The great Robin switch was a nightly game, and Jason grinned widely at the villains, the police officers, at Bruce and Damian who knew better, at the security footage that Dick would be watching … because that was the way that this worked.

No secrets after nightfall.  Jason and Dick were a team.

Two boys.  One Robin.

They may never fight side-by-side, but they fly as one, and that’s kind of awesome.

* * *

_**There’s nothing left inside for me to break.** _

* * *

Steph followed the new Robin across the Cave with Damian trailing in her wake.  She wasn’t going to be able to shake her persistent and overprotective shadow for a while, but Steph was okay with that.  She had kind of missed the demon too.

The kid tugged on Steph’s hand again, and she followed obediently.  It was good to know that the kid didn’t hold a grudge for that time Steph sort-of knocked him off a moving train last week.

And contrary to what Nightwing would later allege, it wasn’t that Stephanie didn’t notice the fifth presence up above; she just wasn’t expecting the figure to drop from the ceiling with the same death-defying glee as the Robin beside her.  And yes, Steph must differentiate, because now there were two dark-haired boys in Robin suits.

Steph tensed automatically, but Damian was calm at her back and the kid dropped her arm to tackle his double with a hair-raising cackle.  So the Red Hood held her ground and waited for an explanation.

“Miss Red Hood?” one Robin teased, hanging off his double.  “Allow me to introduce Robin.”

Stephanie inspected them closely.  The new boy reddened under his mask, and she was reasonably certain that the Robin she had worked with tonight would be incapable of blushing.  Also, their noses were slightly different although the bridge of the mask disguised that somewhat.  Cave!Robin was just a hair taller and probably a little bit heavier too.

This was the boy that Stephanie threw off a train during the altercation with Clayface.

Street!Robin grins as she sorted them out, and abandoned Cave/Train!Robin to hang off Damian’s back instead.  His accomplice made a move to follow him, before thinking better of it and shifting his weight uncomfortably  “His name is Jason,” Street!Robin sang out cheerfully from his new perch, “And I’m Dick.”

“You are a dick,” the newly-identified Jason growled, scrubbing at the back of his neck nervously.  “Sorry, Stephanie.”

Steph waved the apology aside politely, turning back to Damian for her explanation.

“Identity protection,” he allowed curtly, peeling Dick off with the ease of long-practice.  “Father’s idea.”  There was something careful in the way he said that … as if Damian didn’t agree with Bruce’s plan.

“Hey, we had a little …”

“… something to do with it too,” Jason finished Dick’s sentence, and they both tilted their head to the left in an eerily synchronized gesture.

And yeah, Steph could see the problem now.


	6. But Everything Looks Better When the Sun Goes Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is Batman. Tim is Robin. They’re just not each _other’s ___Batman or Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the song "Make Me Wanna Die" by _The Pretty Reckless ___

* * *

_"Opportunities for Eternity"_

* * *

 

"Watch out for Tim."

Bruce grunted a response and made a pointed show of checking under the console for misplaced children.

Damian hadn’t changed a thing.  The Bat-Computer was still a formidable wall of technology.  Bruce’s chair had been swiftly restored after his return.  Everything about Bruce’s workspace was exactly the same, but reclaiming his station—even with all of the usual screens, files, and accesses—somehow felt like a demotion.

No one bothered to tell Bruce exactly how the Clocktower had become compromised during his absence, and the man was too proud to ask.  Fortunately, Bruce and Barbara had a back-up plan in place and Firewall was already being constructed.

Until it was finished, _however_ , the information hub had been temporarily relocated … and Oracle seemed to reign supreme over the entire Cave from her powerful web of machines.

Bruce had it on good authority (Alfred’s) that Barbara was still required to eat, sleep, and attend classes like a normal college student, but the World’s Greatest Detective had yet to catch her at it.

Bruce knew Jim worried about her more than ever before, but he still didn’t know _why_.

The things that Bruce didn’t know filled months and months’ worth of backlogged reports.  Some days it felt as if Bruce would never catch up to the children again.  He would never know every inch of their history, every nightmare, every scar.

The obvious conclusion was an ugly epiphany indeed: _He was no longer needed._

He was no longer needed, because there was a new Bruce Wayne making the rounds at parties.

It didn’t bother Bruce much.  As far as he was concerned, Tommy could have it all—Bruce wouldn’t miss a thing—even if all the wealth in the world wouldn’t make the man happy.  The petty vengeances of his childhood friend would never satisfy Hush, because the things that Thomas Elliot cared about were not the things that mattered to Bruce.

He was no longer needed, because there was a new Batman; Bruce’s son served the city now.

It shouldn’t have bothered Bruce.  Damian’s eventual succession had always been taken for granted.  Damian’s ways were not always Bruce’s, but the city had been fooled.  The younger children looked to Damian for guidance, and everything was exactly as it should have been after Bruce was gone.

The first Batman hadn’t counted on _coming back._

So here Bruce sat catching up on old cases—an intruder in his own Cave—and nothing seemed to highlight this fact more than being constantly bidden to watch out for the small boy that made his nest amongst the terminals of Barbara’s temporary command center.

Bruce didn’t care what precautions Damian and Barbara had set into place.  The nest was a fire hazard.

Timothy should be sleeping proper hours in a proper bed like any other civilian … preferably stationed in a strategically-chosen apartment across the city with Alfred to look after his needs and perhaps a Super bodyguard as an extra precaution.

Sooner or later, Jack and Janet Drake would emerge from the depths of the jungle to reclaim their son.  Tommy Elliot may have delayed that day with his generous contributions to the dig funding and effusive promises of devoted guardianship, but the day of reckoning would still come.

Bruce would simply feel better if—in the meantime, at least—the boy was far, far away from the Bat Cave, Batman, and the tangible promise of an eventual Robin costume … far, far away from Bruce and the disturbing pattern of his failures.

Damian was a good man, and Bruce was proud of him, but the Dark Knight couldn’t take the credit.  He had help in the form of Alfred, of Clark and Diana, of Jim Gordon, Colin, Stephanie … even Talia and Ra’s had contributed to the man Bruce’s son had become.

Bruce loved Damian.  He trusted the younger man’s choices and took comfort in his son’s priorities.  He had faith that Damian would keep his siblings safe.  He knew Gotham was in good hands.

Of all the decisions that Damian had made in his absence, Timothy was the only one Bruce questioned.

Privately.  Purely in the safety of his own head.

By some miracle, Bruce had all of his children once more, but he wasn’t blind to his mistakes.  The original Batman’s relationship with Damian had always been a fragile thing, and Bruce had personally laid the seeds of doubt that Stephanie sometimes expressed in herself.  He still saw the damage that he had done to Jason and Dick twice over with his paranoia.  Bruce’s indecision almost cost Cassandra her life, and he swiftly surrendered the responsibility to others.

Bruce had no right to make decisions regarding a child’s welfare.

So Tim stayed.

* * *

_". . . on the Rise"_

* * *

 

Bruce made the trip to the airport alone.

That was a deliberate choice on the original Batman’s part.

Going solo meant that  the chaotic frenzy of a full Wayne family reunion could be delayed, and going solo meant that Bruce was the first to spy Tim as the teen disembarked

The boy was tanned by a sun that Gotham seldom saw.  He was a little skinny in the way of growing teenagers, but not unhealthily so.  Definitely taller, judging by the too-short sleeves of Tim’s button-down; Robin would be in need of a new uniform.  Again.

Tim shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his guardian’s gaze, and Bruce realized that Tim actually looked a little lost without the usual crowd.  The man waited patiently, but when blue eyes finally met Bruce’s own … it was with obvious apprehension.

“No one’s hurt,” Bruce was quick to reassure the boy.  “They’re all fine.”  Bruce tried to smile; it came out a grimace.  His children could be an exhausting, terrifying force of nature when they were so inclined.  “They’re also grounded.”

Tim’s relief was evident even as the teenager groaned helplessly.  “What did they do now?”

“Don’t ask,” Bruce advised, relieving Tim of his knapsack and steering the teenager towards the baggage claim.  “They might tell you … loudly, at length, and with great detail.”

Tim winced.  “Gotcha.”  He mimed zipping his lips and throwing away a key.

Bruce’s smile was less pained this time.  Despite being the source of Bruce’s prolonged seasonal headache, Timothy’s ability to take a hint somehow only further endeared him to Bruce.

Possibly, Bruce was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome in the wake of a very long summer with his deeply resentful and possibly feral children.

His oldest refused to discuss Tim’s absence at all.  In fact, Damian gradually lost all willingness to communicate verbally as the summer progressed.  Of course, this had nothing to do with Damian’s usual habit of directing all commentary to someone roughly elbow height and to the younger man’s immediate left.

Dick and Cassandra were more open about their feelings.  Every conversation seemed to begin with the phrase: “When Tim comes home.”  Dick began to show off on patrol—restless without a game of rooftop tag or a round of train surfing to occupy him on slow nights.  Cassandra devoted herself to helping Alfred in the garden as if digging in the dirt made her feel closer to the boy doing the same thing halfway around the world.

Jason preferred outright denial.  It might have made for a refreshing change if Bruce’s son didn’t rack up ridiculous library fines in the process by tossing the books he enjoyed on Tim’s bed and forgetting all about them.

Bruce had begun to suspect the teenager of employing Pavlovian conditioning to keep the others in line.  Even Stephanie’s brilliant smile seemed to dim until Timothy had been restored to Gotham.

“Apparently,” Bruce allowed graciously, “you have been missed.”

“I just talked to them all on Skype last week,” Tim lamented, jogging to catch up with Bruce’s longer stride as they headed for the parking garage.

“All of Gotham was made aware,” Bruce reported dryly.  “And I do mean _all_ of Gotham.”

Skype was both a blessing and a curse.  Without it, Bruce might have to reconsider the no-kill rule.  With it, Bruce had to live with the fact that no Bat or Bird would miss a scheduled Skype date for _anything_ up to and including the apocalypse.  Even unscheduled Skype dates tended to result in a crowd of vigilante shirking their responsibilities in favor of listening as Tim babbled about the historical discovery of a potsherd.  This was of course faithfully recounted verbatim to any party unfortunate enough to miss Tim’s unexpected call … regardless of whether said-party was friend or foe.

Tim sighed heavily.  “Bane is going to kidnap me again, isn’t he?”

“I suppose that depends on whether or not you have been writing him as promised,” Bruce grimaced at the mention of Robin’s unusual pen-pal.  “Bane was delighted to have your parents working on restoring the past of Santa Prisca.”

“Mom and Dad like it there,” Tim reported absently as he climbed into Bruce’s Bentley.  “They might even put Haiti off a year to finish up with the former capital … oh, hey!  Are we going straight back to the Manor, B?”

Bruce considered a moment—should he extend his break from the other children or return to preserve the architectural integrity of his home?

“I was encouraged to return promptly,” he allowed cautiously, “but if you haven’t eaten yet, it would be irresponsible of me not to stop for something along the way.”

“Cheeseburgers?” Tim asked hopefully.  He always wanted the worst junk food after a summer abroad.  “From the diner on Washington?  We could get milkshakes from Toro’s too!”

Bruce sighed as he pulled out of the parking garage; he had a weakness for Toro’s strawberry-banana milkshake and Tim knew it.  “Just don’t tell Alfred.”

* * *

_"I Would Die For You, My Love"_

* * *

 

“Mother,” Damian choked out.  His fists were clenched in his cape, and the younger Batman resembled a child playing dress-up once more.  “Mother, please …”

Bruce reached out, silencing his son with a touch.  Damian surrendered the phone soundlessly.

Keenly aware of his audience, Bruce turned away from his sons and turned off the speakerphone.  “Before this starts,” he murmured, “we need to talk.”

Gentle nostalgia was the key; Bruce had loved Talia once.  He loved her still if not to the exclusion of all else.  No matter what the woman sought, Talia was still the mother of his child, and however misguided her actions, Bruce clung to that.

“Don’t do this,” he pled softly on Damian’s behalf.  “Talk to me.”

“You wanted this,” Talia accused him playfully. Bruce did not flinch.  Only a few feet away, Damian was muttering under his breath, head bowed so deeply that the words were lost on Bruce.

“You thought I’d just _forget_ what you did to me?  What you _took_ from me?”

 _A child for a child_ , Bruce’s conscience supplied readily.  _Tim for Damian_.

“Timothy isn’t Damian,” Bruce argued.  “He isn’t our son, Talia.  He’s just a boy … just a civilian.”

A bounty of half-a-billion dollars on the head of a civilian child that she had never met … Bruce had not realized how badly Talia was spiraling in the wake of his supposed-death and resurrection.

He had thought of her in the last few months, but infrequently.  There was always something more pressing to deal with—Doctor Hurt, the Joker, Selina, Tommy, Tim Drake, Batman, Inc… .

“He is leverage, Beloved,” Talia corrected him sweetly.  The name made him tense where guilt and shame had no power.

Damian leapt on the betrayal of emotion.  “What does she want?” his son demanded.  “Never mind what she wants,” Damian dismissed the question in his next breath.  “Just give it to her.”

Bruce just shook his head wordlessly.

Damian snatched the phone from him.  “Name your demands, Mother.  I shall see them met.”

Bruce could not hear Talia’s response.  He didn’t need to hear it.  Silently, the Batman pressed the switch hook to end the call before Damian could promise away his life or freedom.

The betrayal on his son’s face would haunt Bruce’s nightmares for years to come, but Bruce couldn’t lose another child.

Damian didn’t understand that kind of pain.

_Not yet._

Their silent stalemate didn’t last long before Jason cleared his throat.  “O says that you need to turn your comms back on.  Red Hood and Robin are gone.  Rabbited.”

Damian nodded brusquely.  “Hood would have left the moment Leviathan placed her bounty.”

“Your mother said to keep Tim with you,” Bruce countered.

“She did,” Damian acknowledged as he headed for the passage that would lead back to the surface, “so I will obviously be keeping Robin as far from me as possible.”

The vague answer was the last concession that Bruce was offered.

It was only by listening closely to the renewed muttering that Bruce was able to recognize a handful of words in Arabic—enough to raise an eyebrow at Damian’s unusually deferential tone.  The younger man was not religious.  Bruce suspected that no one raised under R’s al Ghl could entertain belief in the divine for long.

The Demon’s Head was his own deity; he would not condone Damian actually  _practicing_ a religion that implied otherwise.

Being _educated_ in the religions of the world—past and present—was another matter entirely.  Thorough, but theoretical, the focus had been on the manipulation of other’s beliefs rather than the fostering of Damian’s own.

When Damian exhausted his knowledge of one religion, he switched to another.  Arabic gave way to Latin and then to English.  Bruce recognized the Catholic traditions of his own youth, then a few words of Japanese and Mandarin, portions of the _Iliad_ and the _Poetic_ _Edda_ , and a language that Bruce thought might be Hebrew based on his childhood memories of Kate’s Bat Mitzvah.

The unending catechism was making Dick and Jason uncomfortable, but Bruce let the languages spill forth without comment.  The recitation was flawless, but these were not the prayers of a believer.

These were the prayers of the desperate, and Bruce knew the weight of those stoic pleas.  He had made them himself in simpler words.

He—Bruce Wayne, skeptic, atheist, detective, _Batman_ —had prayed to anything that might listen … time and time again.

Heedless of sky or ceiling, Bruce bartered belief on rooftops and in hospital rooms.  The father found words where the hero had none.  Bruce spilled them sloppily as he raced through the city with an unconscious Robin in the passenger seat.  He choked on them in the cemetery where he had laid his eldest daughter to rest.  He had given a desperate, silent monologue in a sunny coffee-shop with both Clark and Damian at his side—no one hurt, nothing threatened, no danger except for the tiny reluctant smile on his twelve year old son’s face.

In this fear, Batman suspected that father and son had found common ground as mentor, guardian, and hero at last.

* * *

_"All the Things that I Shouldn't Know"_

* * *

 

Once upon a time, the current incarnation of Batman and Robin limited their passive aggressive warfare to the streets and rooftops of Gotham.  In the initial aftermath, they had been content to work out their personal problems on the rogues.  A month after Jason’s slip of the tongue, and the argument had spilled over into the sanctity of the Bat-Cave.

A line had been drawn.  Weapons were bared.  Blood was spilled, and the masses either hid or fled.

Jason was usually at the forefront of such an exodus.

Bruce stepped out of the younger man’s way with dignified nod before Jason could bowl him over entirely as Tim’s sputtering indignation rose in pitch as it echoed in the underground cavern:

"You can’t make me … Who do you even think you are?"

Bruce considered shutting the clock again and going back to bed.  He had a few more years of sleep debt to catch up on after all.  Or he could take Cassandra out for breakfast.  Stephanie could probably be convinced to join them for waffles.

"I’m the damn Batman!" Damian roared.

His son may be a faultless mimic, but Bruce doubted that the line sounded quite so childish when the _he_ used it.

Tim’s answering battle-cry was a wordless scream of rage, and Bruce had clearly waited too long to make good on his escape.  He could hear the sounds of a scuffle now and was duty-bound as a parent to break it up before something or someone was permanently damaged.

"Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne," Bruce bellowed down the stairs.  "Get off that dinosaur before Damian breaks your neck."  Of course, Bruce couldn’t see that Tim was perched on the T-Rex from this angle, but it was a safe bet.  Tim liked to obtain the higher ground; his older brother delighted in knocking Tim off of said-higher ground.

Two weeks, Bruce reminded himself as he began to descend the stairs to the muffled medley of grappling-style combat.  Tim would turn eighteen in two weeks, and all of Bruce’s legal and/or obligations will have been met.  The day Tim turned eighteen, Bruce intended to throw all six and a half of his children out of the house in order to enjoy some long over-due solitude.

It wasn’t cruel, as he had explained to Clark just last week.  They had trust-funds.  They had vehicles.  Half of them had apartments.  Dick even had a job.  It was simply time … time for all Robins to leave the nest.

Bruce was determined to enjoy at least one full week of retirement before his offspring found their way past the security system again.

* * *

_"I Can See in Your Eyes . . ."_

* * *

 

Bruce was the one to find Tim.

The entire family was combing the city for their lost and grieving Robin, but Bruce was the one to find him tucked into the shelter of a particularly ugly gargoyle’s wings.

It was an excellent hiding spot.  In fact, it had been one of Jason’s best ‘thinking’ spots until a series of growth spurts put an end to Red Robin’s habit of wedging himself into tiny spaces.

No one would have ever thought to look for Tim here.

That was the exact reason that Bruce had checked this long-abandoned gargoyle.  He had also checked Cassandra’s favorite window ledge.  And Damian’s not-so-secretly-preferred access point to the sewers.  And Dick’s usual perch atop W.E.

Bruce had checked all of the decidedly not-Tim spaces, and his efforts had been duly rewarded with a shell-shocked, grieving thirteen year old.

Of course, now the question was what Bruce should do with said-teenager?

The family was spread out over Gotham.  It would take Damian some time to double back across the city, and Bruce couldn’t foist the responsibility off on Stephanie who was only a few blocks away.  A replacement mother-figure was the last thing Tim would want right now.  Bruce understood that much of his son’s Robin at least.

"It’s my fault."

Bruce studied the boy.  Tim curled a little deeper into his cape under the Batman’s scrutiny.  If he had been crying, Bruce couldn’t tell.

The Batman sighed heavily and folded his arms across his chest.   “Invalid hypothesis.”

"I—I lied to Ms. Little … to be Robin.  If I had just let Social Services do their job, they would have sent me to my parents eventually.  I could have protected her."

"If you hadn’t become Robin, you wouldn’t have had any training to protect her with," Bruce pointed out reasonably.  "You could have died.  You could have been badly injured like your father."

Bruce stared at the top of Robin’s head until the boy reluctantly met his gaze.  The domino lenses were a deliberate barrier, but Bruce had a hard stare.  He’d break through eventually.

"Or you could be sitting in an embassy building right now and waiting for a total stranger to take custody of you."

He didn’t point out that it would be Bruce, himself, reluctantly assuming said-responsibility (or possibly Damian—Tim had been rather instrumental in recovering Bruce).  The teenager would undoubtedly have become Robin—a few years late and more like Bruce than ever—but Janet Drake would still be dead.

"You couldn’t have saved her."

"Then I should have told them to come back!"  Tim flinched at the force of his own words and automatically quieted.  "After Mrs. Mac’s heart attack, I should have told them … I should have asked them to come back.  They would have come back if I asked."

That seemed unlikely.  Either Jack or Janet might have returned to care for Tim, but one would have remained with the site until the work was finished.  Sooner or later, a new project would have arisen, and a new housekeeper would have been hired to care for Tim during the school year.

Tim might have been an ordinary teenage boy trying not to cry in front of the housekeeper or a well-meaning police officer instead of skillfully avoiding the Bats.

Bruce didn’t say any of this aloud; Tim knew these things without being told.

"They shouldn’t have gone to Haiti," Tim insisted uselessly.  "I told them they should have kept working in Santa Prisca.  They said it could wait.  They said we’d work on it again next summer … they said we’d do it together."

"You have always enjoyed your summers with them a great deal," Bruce acknowledged reluctantly

Tim cheerfully returned to Gotham every fall—well-rested, astonishingly freckled, and excited over the most mundane discoveries.  Bruce had always wondered what brought the boy back to Gotham each fall; Tim clearly enjoyed both the work and his parents’ company.

Now Bruce measured his words carefully.  “Your parents were impressed by the work you put in, Robin … by the research and dedication.  I’m sure they were simply saving the project for your return.”

"I shouldn’t have come back," the boy whispered, ducking his head and hiding his face in the gauntlets of his uniform.  "I should have found a way to stay with her.  She wanted me to stay with her."

Bruce opened his mouth and shut it again.

When he finally trusted himself to speak again, Bruce found himself crouching to Tim’s level.  “No,” he said firmly.  “Janet did not want you there when she died.  She missed you, I’m sure.  Your father too, but when they were attacked, your parents were only relieved—desperately relieved—that you had returned to Gotham … that you were safe.  In the end, Janet was only glad that you were safe, Tim.  I swear it.”

Bruce was a parent—he knew these things.

Tim was definitely crying now.  Bruce deftly extracted the boy and rocked to his feet, pulling Tim with him.  Settling them both against the building while they waited for pick-up, Bruce pretended not to notice the tears wearing away the domino’s glue.  The mask would give way soon enough.

Bruce just held the grieving child close, and buried the words in his son’s hair because now wasn’t the time or place for Bruce’s epiphany.

It could wait until Tim was finished grieving for a parent that wasn’t Bruce.

* * *

_". . . will Burn Up in the Light."_

* * *

 

The boy was a stranger to Bruce.

Granted, his little adventure had already proven memory an unreliable asset.  However, this boy was smaller than any of Bruce’s children had ever been, and the man liked to think that the faces of his family would have formed an untouchable foundation to build upon.

Alfred’s aged countenance had broken through the creeping cold earlier.

Any of Bruce’s children might have done the same.  He had recognized Stephanie’s crown of golden hair and Jason’s blue-green eyes among the heroes that came to save him (or to save the world from him).  Bruce had—for a few moments at least—held Cassandra close as the others arrived in the aftermath.

The names came easily: Damian, Barbara, Stephanie, Jason, Dick, and Cassandra.

And then there was the strange boy.

He clearly didn’t belong—a civilian child amongst heroes.  Yet, he was sure enough of himself to slip into Stephanie’s lap when there were not enough chairs to go around, and Damian squeezed the child’s shoulder almost fondly.

Bruce considered watching and waiting.  The Batman was known for it after all, and the Batman was a creature of habit.  Bruce thought about falling into the comfort of routine, but the Bat was splayed across a younger man’s chest now.

Bruce felt that he could perhaps safely and openly indulge in a little curiousity at long last.

Such security was a fresh wave of pride in his children.  He squeezed Barbara’s hand once more, jostled Jason’s shoulder as his arm was not quite long enough to reach around both of his middle children, and then Bruce opened the metaphorical can of worms.

His smile was for Stephanie.

His question was for the boy in her arms.

"Who are you?"

The child sat up straight without prompting.  “I’m the one who figured out your clues,” he reported, his smile a bright, _bright_ shining thing like all the others.  “I’m Tim.”


	7. I Feel There is Nothing I can Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Titles taken from “Kryptonite” by 3 Doors Down.
> 
> Bats, Birds, and Roles.

> _I Picked You Up and Put You Back on Solid Ground_

"You say the words," his little shadow ordered, crouching above Jason’s perch on a convenient fire escape.  "Right words."

Jason eyed the drug dealers below.  “These clowns deserve an ass-kicking, Princess, not a narrator.”

He could almost feel her frown even in the dark as she tried to parse meaning from metaphor.  Jason was probably the least qualified to give speech lessons to the nameless teen, but beggars can’t be choosers.

To clarify, Jason is the beggar here.

"Words," she repeated insistently, dropping down to Jason’s level and placing her hand over the Robin insignia.  "Robin’s words."

"Got a lot of ‘em," Jason agreed.  "Part and parcel of the whole Robin package."  He stubbed out his cigarette.  "So I’ll do the talking ; what’s your contribution gonna be, Princess?"

A very tiny grin under the secondhand domino after she pulled his meaning from something ridiculous like the tilt of his head or the slant of his shoulders.

"Robin words," she repeated.  "I spoil.  I … kick ass."

> _If I’m Alive and Well, Will You be There Holding My Hand?_

Dick had been Robin for so long that he wasn’t sure how to stop.

Jason still carried the name in a way, but Jay had been building something else before everything went wrong.  His brother could be Red Robin again … now that he wasn’t trying to kill himself in Dick’s memory.

Red Robin was different.  Red Robin only showed up when the bad guys had already lost, and there was a certain intimidation factor at play.  The Reds had something of a reputation for knowing things … for taking someone’s world apart right underneath their nose.

Red Robin was feared in a way that Robin never was.

Dick was just a distraction.  Sometimes, he was simply bait.

Mostly, he was Jason’s other half … except Jason was different now.  Jason had matured too fast, affected by grief and rage and time that Dick couldn’t take back.

Jason spent a year mourning the loss of a brother, making new friends and enemies, and dropped out of school to go world-traveling.  Dick spent a year in seclusion, repairing the abandoned Tower and waiting for Batman to tell him it was safe again.

They were different people now.  They couldn’t be Robin again—not really.  Not anymore.

That didn’t mean Dick knew how to be anybody else.

The others wanted him to choose his own identity.  They wanted to help him design a new costume.  They wanted him to grow up and get out from under Batman’s shadow.

Dick wanted it too.  Sometimes.

Mostly Dick wanted the freedom of independence, but he didn’t want to be alone.

He had enough of that in the last few months, thanks.

Robin would never grow up, and sometimes … sometimes, Dick envied his alter ego for it.

> _After All, I Knew It had to be Something to Do with You_

Tim listened to the news late at night after he was supposed to be in bed.  If he was very quiet, the housekeeper never noticed him perched at the top of the stairs.

He couldn’t see the television from there, but he could hear it.

Tonight, the news anchor sounded almost giddy with relief.  He bandied words with the reporter on the scene, and the puns … the puns were terrible.  Hardly Robin quality.

Tim was nine years old, and he could make better puns than this.

They make another bird joke, and Tim rolled his eyes, because Robin wasn’t even there.  Batman and Batgirl solved the case, apprehended the clown, and rescued the school bus without so much as a glimpse of the red tunic.

Robin hadn’t been out in weeks.

If Tim was right and the newly debuted Black Bat was Dick Grayson, then Gotham was without a Robin again.  Red Robin didn’t count, and Batgirl hadn’t claimed the vacant role for herself.

The Robin identity was open.

Tim didn’t know whether he should be excited or worried about that possibility.

No Robin meant that it would be harder to spy on Batman.  If Dick Grayson wasn’t Robin anymore, he might leave the city like the first Robin.  Historically, Batman didn’t do so well between Robins although he had the new Batgirl to work with.

Batgirl was much harder to photograph.

Still … the Robin costume was empty.  It was just waiting for a new hero to take it up, and Tim  had already indulged in a daydream or two about being that hero.

Who wouldn’t want to be Robin?

Tim absently noted the final words of the program and slipped back down the hall to his room.  Mrs. Mac would check on him one last time before going to bed, but then the night was Tim’s.

Red Robin and the Red Hood had been suspiciously absent from the news story, and Tim knew something big must be going on if the pair was willing to skip a Joker case.

> _I Left My Body Lying Somewhere in the Sands of Time_

The man in the mirror could have been Bruce Wayne.  A shade darker and perhaps a trifle thinner; Damian’s new workout regime could not alter muscle mass in a mere week.

Alfred was thrilled for the excuse to feed his charge ‘properly.’

Damian had worn the costume twice before—both times as a foolish child playing dress-up with his father’s things—and his Father’s cowl was still an awkward adjustment.

Stephanie laughed and teased him, always striking just beyond his field of vision in their spars as she retrained him to consider the cowl’s limitations.  Cassandra was a quieter presence—actually able to land blows against the older vigilante.

The cape will take longer to become accustomed to than the cowl.  Its weight had always made Damian feel secure and safe as a Robin … and even as Nightwing on the rare occasions when Damian needed his father to take the lead.  Now it was a burden that the Son of the Bat must bear.

Damian was the oldest.  He was responsible for the others.  He had to protect Stephanie and Dick—in this, Damian must surpass his father.  He would need to guide Jason’s travels home again, and teach Cassandra both the wonders and the pitfalls of a world outside the League of Assassins … thank goodness for Alfred.

The Batman was nothing without his butler.

> _You Called Me Strong, You Called Me Weak, But Still Your Secrets I Will Keep_

In private, they were Bats as they were meant to be.

In public, they were on display.

Blindly adoring—ridiculously stupid—paparazzi was the literal worst.  And Stephanie—no, Constance—must play her role like a good little superhero.  She could not start shooting up the ballroom just because Vicki Vale was doggedly persistent.

Alfred would not approve.

So Stephanie shared encouraging smiles with Dick “The Runaway” Grayson, and refrained from screaming at the top of her lungs.  She bit back everything she wanted to say to every false smile.

_I was here._

_I was here before._

Taller in heels and older on paper, Constance had a showy criminal justice degree and a hellish commute to keep her busy so that the ugly truths didn’t slip past Steph’s lips.

She doesn’t tell Vicki Vale what Steph really thinks of her.

_You smiled and cooed over me when I was fourteen and then talked pityingly behind my back ._ _. . because I was the Wayne pet._

_And then I was the Wayne scandal._

_And the Wayne tragedy._

She couldn’t lose it.  All the careful work Babs had put in would be undone, and the identity would be ruined.  Questions would be raised.  Rumors would circle again—the wrong kind of rumors.

So Steph toasted the reporters instead.  She answered questions about her dress, she clung to the Wayne heir, and she drank more champagne.

Her smile stayed in place.

_I made a good story, didn’t I?_


End file.
